


Cleaning the Pipes

by Winnywriter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Masturbation, Other, thats it thats the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:03:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnywriter/pseuds/Winnywriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam needs to unwind. Big time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning the Pipes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spooky_mulder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spooky_mulder/gifts).



> There's not enough Sam Winchester masturbation fic on the internet. Samsturbation, if you will. I'm aiming to help fix that.

"Dude."

"What?"

"You've been glaring at your sandwich for ten solid minutes."

Sam sets his jaw and picks a piece of lettuce out from between the slices of bread, nibbling on it. "I'm thinking."

He can practically  _hear_ Dean roll his eyes, and it doesn't help his mood. All he wants to do is go for a run, just to get out of the bunker, but it's all of ten degrees outside and the last thing he needs right now is a head cold. Dean sighs and says, "You get pissy when you're stressed."

"I'm not  _pissy,"_ Sam snaps, and Dean just looks smug, because as much as Sam hates to admit it, he's kind of just proved his point. He huffs and picks up his sandwich, biting into it with extreme prejudice and cursing softly when a slice of tomato slides out the other side and lands with a sad squelching sound on his plate.

"Dude," Dean says again, and Sam glares at him.

" _What?_ "

"Go do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, something to help you unwind. What do you normally do to relax?"

He doesn't want to admit Dean is right; he is wound up tighter than a piano wire, but what is he supposed to do? He shouldn't be trying to de-stress. He shouldn't even be sitting here with his sandwich like this when there could be a job somewhere for them to check out. The world is going to shit. He doesn't have time to relax.

When he says that, though, Dean groans and gets up. "For fuck's sake, Sammy. Go take a hot bath or something. Meditate. Clean the pipes. Do  _something_ to help your mood."

Sam pushes the errant tomato around on his plate for a moment before Dean snatches it away, and Sam glares at him. "Fine," he clips out. If Dean wants to be a royal pain in his ass, he'll go take a shower to get him off his back.

He grabs the other half of his sandwich off the plate and takes it with him to his room.

He takes a shower and washes his hair and changes into some clean clothes, and that helps him feel a little better at least, but the relief doesn't last. He lies there on his bed, trying to convince himself that he's not wallowing. There are better things he could be doing. Kevin could use some help figuring out those trials, maybe, and even if he can't read the tablet, he could be lending a hand somehow. Or he could be scoping out nearby jobs for him and Dean to look into in the mean time.

Anything is better than lying here.

But Dean does have a point; his eyes are tired and he's getting his third stress headache of the week. He can barely remember the last time he honestly relaxed. Of course his room isn't exactly set up to help with that. Dean has taken his time to turn his into a nest, but he never had that urge himself. The walls are stark white and there's nothing on his shelves aside from a few books and some clothes he hasn't gotten around to putting away yet. He doesn't even sleep in here much; the couch in the other room is comfortable enough, and he's so used to sleeping on shitty motel mattresses that it's almost easier dozing on the old cushions than it is to drift off in a comfortable bed.

He sighs, staring at the ceiling, staring at nothing. He's all alone, and his room is quiet. Maybe Dean had the right idea. After all, he hasn't spent any quality time with his hand for a while now, and he hasn't had sex since Amelia. Maybe he is a little frustrated.

His door is closed, and the light in the room is dim. It couldn't hurt to have a little "Sam-time."

He stacks his pillows against the headboard and leans against them, getting good and comfortable. His eyes slip closed, and he lets out a sigh, trying to get his muscles to relax. They do, if only a tiny bit. It's good enough for now.

Slowly, his hand snakes downward, and he presses the heel of it between his legs, over his jeans. The firm, warm pressure feels nice, in much the same way a back rub does, and he curls his fingers around to cup himself, rubbing in soft, gentle circles. It doesn't take too long for his body to start to get interested, the first tendrils of arousal starting to sneak up his legs. He spreads them wider, bending his knees and letting them fall to the sides.

He's never been one to take it slow, to enjoy his body. For most of his life, he's never had the chance. When his adolescence was spent sharing a hotel room with his brother and father for most of the time, privacy was a foreign concept to him, and even growing older, the habit of jerking himself off fast and unceremoniously in the shower had stayed.

It's different with partners; he's always loved getting women off, winding them up, watching them fall apart. But when it comes to coming himself, it's the same way – he's never held back, never tried to last beyond what it takes to get the other person to finish. An orgasm is an orgasm whether it takes three minutes to reach or three hours.

But now...now, he takes his time. His thumb brushes against his zipper with every sweep of his palm across the growing bulge beneath it, but he doesn't reach inside until he's pressing so hard against his boxers that it's nearly painful. The zipper gives way with a noise that sounds like a sigh of relief, and he mirrors it with one of his own.

His dick is forming a shallow tent in his underwear, swelling to half-mast. He wraps a hand around it, through the cotton blend fabric, giving a careful stroke and gasping when he does.

He brings his free hand up to his mouth, presses the side of his fist to his lips and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He can't be too loud now; Dean would never let him live it down if he heard him.

But for once the danger of his brother walking in on him is almost nill; Dean won't waltz in uninvited, especially not when it would be risking putting him in an even worse mood. It's one of the charms of having his own room that he'd gone so long without that he'd almost forgotten existed.

So he sits up, tugging his shirt up over his head and kicking off his jeans before lying back. When he brings his hand down between his legs again, he lets out a contented little sigh. His muscles are relaxing as his blood flows south, his mind too preoccupied with the warmth and pressure of his hand on his cock to turn over anything else. The feeling of his naked skin on the sheets sends little jolts of sensation through his body every time he shifts

His boxers are constricting him, not just in his groin, but everywhere. He can't stand the feeling of fabric covering him; it feels redundant, useless. So he slides them off and tosses them aside.

He lies there, naked, his hand loose around the base of his penis, and for a moment, he just looks down at it. A laugh almost bubbles up from his gut, because it's staring right at him, and it looks almost offended that he's neglected it for so long.

Not for much longer, he thinks, and he tightens his fist around it and drags it up. His throat constricts around a groan as he tosses his head back, hearing a dull thunk as it nudges the headboard. His dick gives an encouraging throb under his fingers as his free hand slides down his stomach, then up again, across his chest and down once more to rest against his hip bone.

He constructs a half-hearted fantasy, with some faceless woman running her slim hands all across his body, wrapping them around his dick and leaning down to drag her tongue across the swollen head. But it slips from his mind so easily; somehow the thought of somebody else doing this to him just doesn't make his heart race the same way that doing it to himself does.

So instead of creating an imaginary partner to get him off, he focuses on his own body. This is his time, his pleasure, and he can afford to be selfish with his attention. There's nobody else to worry about getting off, nobody to impress – just him, just the sound of his breath coming in shaky little controlled inhales and exhales, the friction of his hand dragging up his cock and back down again, brushing against the course patch of hair between his legs.

He's so hard it sets a deep ache in his belly, the long days of stress and tension swelling and stirring in his gut, needing to get out. He'll let them...soon. But not yet. Not yet.

The pad of his thumb swipes against the flushed pink head, and he lets out a soft moan, pressing his thighs together and rolling his hips lazily upward. God, he needed this, and he's just now realizing how badly. Before, he hadn't even wanted to bother, but now...he's not even close to coming, but he feels as desperate as if he were. That same mantra of "Don't stop god don't stop" is repeating over and over in his head, his body urging him forward.

His self control slips for a moment, and his hand speeds up, the sound of skin sliding against skin filling his ears along with his hitching breath. His grimaces at the burn of dry friction and forces himself to slow again.

He opens his eyes and turns to the side, sitting up and fumbling for the handle on the drawer of his side table. His cock throbs, feeling heavy between his legs, bobbing impatiently as he fishes out a bottle of lotion and squirts way too much onto his palm.

He barely bothers warming it, and he hisses at the coolness of it. His hand slides easily up and down, and it warms up quickly on its own. The dry glide of skin against skin is replaced by an obscenely slick noise every time the head of his cock disappears in his fist.

He whispers encouraging words to his own body, as if he were trying to coax a partner to orgasm, but he doesn't speed up. He keeps his pace slow. Carefully, he draws his knee back, slips his free hand around it and presses his palm up against the heavy weight of his own balls. The groan that he lets out as he massages them and the sensitive skin behind them is so loud that he has to pause – just for a moment – to wonder if anyone else heard.

His precome drips down onto his stomach, and it smears down his length the next time he strokes. He's lost track of time, doesn't know how long he's been here, reveling in his arousal. His forehead is covered with a sheen of sweat, and he can feel a bead of it roll down his temple and disperse in his hair.

He draws a shaky breath and lets it out on a long, rattling moan, slowing the pace of his hand even more. His body screams out against it, but the delicious torture of it is addictive. Slowly, he opens his eyes, looks down to watch his hand moving lazily up and down his straining erection, and he has to close them again and squeeze the base of his cock to rein in the flash of arousal that shoots through him at the sight.

"I need to..." he breathes, to nobody in particular, "I just need to...need to come...I've got to come..." But not yet. God, not yet. He can hold on longer, tease a bit more. He can feel it building, deep in the pit of his stomach, more and more with every pass of his hand over his cock, straining at the edges. It feels like his bones and muscles are throbbing with the effort of holding it in. His body is shaking, tensing, and he urges in a breath and forces it out again, relaxing back against the bed.

Now...now he can start again. He does, slowly, the fingers around his dick uncurling to rub against his balls when he reaches them. With his other hand free, he brings both legs back as far as he can, pressing a finger between his cheeks and massaging the tight opening there. He doesn't press inside, but the pressure and warmth against it is enough to make him curse, a stuttering, desperate, "Ah, fu-huck..."

He's panting now, his breath ragged and uneven. He can't hold out anymore. It's too much, pressing too hard against his insides. God, he's going to come. He's going to come, and he already knows it's going to be one hell of a ride. But there's no way to stop it now; his hips are bucking up into his fist, precome dripping down over his knuckles.

When he straightens his legs out again, brings his free hand up to press against his belly, he can feel his muscles twitching and tensing in anticipation. He doesn't keep it there, though. He's hit the point of no return, and somehow he already knows that he's not going to be able to hold in a scream, so in a moment of clarity, he claps his palm over his mouth.

His orgasm slams into him so hard that a desperate, ragged cry punches its way out of his throat, muffled by his hand, and he arches up off the bed as he paints his own stomach with thick, white spurts. Every nerve ending is screaming, every muscle tensing beyond its capacity, every inch of his skin flushing red from his temples down to his toes, and his hand is flying over his dick, urging more and more out of him. The stress and tension and aches all bleed out of him, and by the time he comes down, he feels like he could melt into the mattress.

He keeps stroking, arrhythmic and lazy, letting out pleased little hums and gasps whenever a movement of his hand makes his stomach twitch. When he can feel himself going soft again under his fingers, he finally lets go, drops his hand to the side and catches his breath.

He opens his eyes to find that his pillow is soaked with sweat, as are the sheets under him, and his stomach is covered in his own come. His palm has pink bite marks on it, and he's sure it will start to hurt when the endorphins wear off. But he's smiling anyway.

Later, when he's showered – again – and put on fresh clothes – again – he goes to the kitchen to tend to his growling stomach. Dean pops around the corner, eyebrow arching when Sam whistles a tune. "You seem chipper," he says. "Your mood less sour now?"

"I'm good," Sam tells him. Thank God he didn't hear him.

"What did you do? Meditate? Align your chakras or something?"

Sam shrugs. "Just...took a nap. Read some. It helped."

"Whatever," Dean grunts, and he turns to go.

Just as Sam is rummaging through the fridge, he comes back and adds, "By the way, dude, next time you're having some you-time, try to keep it down, huh?"

Sam slams his head on the top shelf of the fridge, and Dean cackles behind him.

Jerk.


End file.
